


The Pantsless Wine Party of 1999

by sarahmademedoit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Colorblind Character, Did they ever find Draco's sweater?, Drinking, Explicit Language, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Lucius Malfoy (Mentioned) - Freeform, Lucius Malfoy is a Bad Father, Mentions of Spy Draco, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Narcissa Malfoy (Mentioned) - Freeform, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Severus Snape (Mentioned) - Freeform, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 10:51:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20357263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahmademedoit/pseuds/sarahmademedoit
Summary: “You look nice,” Harry finally asserts. “You look really nice, and the colour suits you, and you ought to keep wearing the sweater.”Draco feels his cheeks and ears burst into flames. Distantly, he realizes that he must make quite a sight with his face smoothed over in perfect shock. More pressing, however, is the pleasant hum of 'Harry thinks I’m attractive when I wear his clothing' running through his skull.“Drinks?” Pansy’s voice cuts the tension with a well-practiced lightness. Draco blinks away, face still flaming. He reaches eagerly for a glass, sipping it as he resettles himself on the armchair. He is, in his own humble opinion, far too sober for this shit.





	1. Far Too Sober

**Author's Note:**

> All recognizable characters and plot points are the property of J.K. Rowling. As always, Sarah made me do it.

“Okay, kiddies,” Draco calls from the top of the stairway. “I was promised cheap wine and no pants.” 

He can already hear Pansy’s laughter, and it brings a smile to his face. He buries his hands in the sleeves of his favourite emerald sweater. It’s aged nicely, the material gone soft and fuzzy. He rubs his hand up and down the side of his face as he bounces down the stairs, shamelessly nuzzling the soft material. 

Draco jumps off the second to last step, surveying the Eighth-Year common room. Harry, Ronald, and Granger sit three across on the large leather couch. At Ronald’s feet, Dean and Seamus are tangled. The quintet are all wearing variations on the classic Gryffindor expression: a bizarre mix of curiosity, fear, and determination. Dean, he notes, is wearing pants, while the rest of them have forgone their usual leg coverings. 

Luna, Nev, and Gin are sprawled across the floor where the coffee table used to be, tangled and bare legged. Blaise has draped himself across the loveseat, deep brown thighs bared to the world as his junk is held back by what is essentially a speedo. Draco would be tempted to peek if he hadn’t already seen those bits more times than he could count. Pansy sits on a floor cushion a bit away from Luna, Neville, and Ginny, leaving Draco’s favourite armchair free for the taking. 

“You guuuys,” he gasps. “I really feel the love tonight.” He immediately curls into the chair. He tucks his feet under himself and leans sideways against the back, then adjusts his sweater. He has on his good underwear, but he wore his oversized sweater on purpose. 

Pany eyes him critically, still managing to pour the perfect glass of wine. (_“It’s about the sound,”_ she says in his memory._ “It doesn’t matter what you’re looking at if you know what you’re listening for.”_) 

“I like the new sweater, Dray,” she says. 

Draco looks down at the sweater, then back to her. His face crumples in a mixture of confusion and disbelief. “Pans,” he says slowly. “You’ve seen this sweater a hundred times before. I’ve had it since fifth year, at least, darling.” (Because yes, he is the kind of gay that calls his best friend ‘darling’, fuck you very much.) 

A worrying smile appears on her face - devilish and practically announcing trouble from the rooftops. “Oh, I’ve seen it before,” she says. 

“Right, well, care to elaborate on that?” 

“Draco?” Granger’s voice is strangely tight. Draco swings his gaze to the couch directly across from him. “Why,” she continues, “are you wearing Harry’s sweater?” 

“_Harry’s_? No, I-- this is--” Draco stutters to a stop as he looks down at the sweater. Realization dawns bright in his chest as, internally, he curls into foetal position and waits for the earth to swallow him whole. His cheeks, of course, have decided that now is the time to blush. 

He looks back up at Pansy. “This isn’t my emerald sweater, is it?” 

Something in her face softens from devilish to sympathetic. “‘Fraid not, love.” 

Draco looks back down. It’s not defeat he’s feeling, not exactly. It’s more a strange brew of frustration, mortification, and resignation. He looks back up, eyes landing on Harry’s thighs (deep brown, lightly furred, and delightfully thick) before they move up to meet those infamous emerald eyes. The two of them have found something adjacent to real friendship in the year they’ve shared a cramped eighth year dorm, but that hardly includes sharing _clothing_. 

“I, uhm,” Draco shakes his head, rapidly collecting his thoughts. “I’m sorry for accidentally taking your sweater. I’m green/brown colour blind and I mistook this sweater for one of my own. You’ve great taste, by the way - this fabric is exquisite.” 

Harry’s swallows, then shakes his head like he’s coming out of a stupor. “Er,” he begins. “It’s not my taste. The sweater was a gift from ‘Mione.” 

“Oh, well,” Draco gestures gamely to Hermione. “You’ve great taste in sweaters. The fabric is exquisite. If you’ll all excuse me, I need to go change and hopefully find my actual sweater.” 

“NO.” At Draco’s startle, Harry’s face morphs into contrition. He holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. But no, you should keep it on--” 

“Harry, it’s not my sweater.” 

“I know, I know, but it’s already on and, well,” Harry’s face smooths as he levels his chin - a gesture Draco always connected with Harry making a rash, vaguely idiotic and entirely Gryffindor decision. 

“You look nice,” Harry finally asserts. “You look really nice, and the colour suits you, and you ought to keep wearing the sweater.” 

Draco feels his cheeks and ears burst into flames. Distantly, he realizes that he must make quite a sight with his face smoothed over in perfect shock. More pressing, however, is the pleasant hum of _Harry thinks I’m attractive when I wear his clothing_ running through his skull. 

Draco blinks himself back to the present, closing his mouth with an embarrassing click. His ears and cheeks have yet to return to their usual colour. He swallows, lest he embarrass himself with a croak, then murmurs, “Thank you, Harry.” Despite all societal norms insisting that their conversation is over, Draco can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the green ones across the room, holding his gaze hostage.

“Drinks?” Pansy’s voice cuts the tension with a well-practiced lightness. Draco blinks away, face still flaming. He reaches eagerly for a glass, sipping it as he resettles himself on the armchair. He is, in his own humble opinion, far too sober for this shit. 

~ 

“When do we start playing games?” Ronald seems genuinely disgruntled, a fact which Draco finds highly amusing. He looks like Granger's cat. What’s that creature’s name? Crack- Crock- Crook-something? Fuck if he knows. 

“No, no, no,” he asserts. “The point of pantsless wine parties isn’t to play games! It’s to get wine drunk and ask ridiculous, esoteric questions and pretend we know what the fuck we’re talking about.” 

“For example,” Luna says, “What is the meaning of self?” 

“Or,” Ginny chimes, “Is anarchy always the answer, or only sometimes?” 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Blaise heralds. “Here’s the _real_ question, though: as a class, do we prefer growers or showers?” 

Ginny, Pansy, Seamus, and Granger, of all people, fall in line behind growers. Neville, Luna, and Blaise toss in their vote for showers. Ronald looks confused, and Dean looks too sober for their fuckery. But then, Draco muses, that’s rather the point - he is their designated responsible, sober, pants’d person. 

Draco looks to Harry with curiosity. “You haven’t voted yet.” 

“Neither have you.” 

“Well, it depends on what’s gonna happen.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Draco rests his drink on the floor before returning to his sprawl to hold court. He is many things - a connoisseur of dicks is one of them, and he’s happy to share his expertise. “Well, if I plan on going down on a bloke, I don’t want him to suddenly grow three inches in my mouth. That shit’s terrifying, and it’s definitely nearly ruined some otherwise top-notch blowjobs.

“But, if I’m gonna be taking that shit up my arse, it doesn’t really matter if it grows, cause it’s gonna haveta be fully extended--” he breaks off into helpless giggles at his own wording. Around him, the room cackles. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. 

“Okay, okay, okay, back to my point. He’ll haveta be fully engorg--” he cuts off again, giggling like mad. Through his teary eyes, he can see that Pansy has tipped over fully, laughing so hard her face has started to strongly resemble a tomato. 

He takes another deep breath, then a third. “I can do this,” he says. “I can be an adult for five fucking seconds. Ok, so, as I was saying! He’ll need to be fully hard before anything can happen between his dick and my arse. It won’t work if he isn’t.” 

Luna’s voice cuts through the fog of lingering laughter. “Your feet are quite archy, Draco.” 

“Thank you,” he pops back, pointing his feet. 

“Dray was a dancer,” Pans adds to literally nobody's benefit. “He’s still really bendy.” 

Harry and Ronald make simultaneous choked off sounds. 

“Prove it!” Seamus crows. 

Draco flushes red. “Absolutely not!” 

“Oh, c’mooooooon!” 

Beside him, Dean shushes him gently and runs a hand through Seamus’s hair. 

“No! We are _not_ following that line of conversation! Now, before this turns into the Draco Malfoy Freakshow Hour, let me top off everyone’s drinks.” 

~ 

“We should go skinny dipping.” 

A chorus of agreements greet Ginny’s suggestion. 

“When?” Ahh, Granger. Ever practical. 

“Right now.” 

“No!” Draco cuts in. “Absolutely not. You’ve been drinking.” 

“But we’re wine drunk! We all know what we’re doing!” 

“Exactly. Wine drunk enough to drown in the Great Lake. Absolutely not. As the resident Mom Friend, I hereby decree-- shut the fuck up, Pansy, I’m trying to make a declaration.” 

Pansy just laughs harder, the honking sound forcing a few giggles out of Draco. For the fuck of it, Draco climbs unsteadily to his feet atop the armchair. He taps his wand a few times against his wine glass, unnecessarily signalling that all eyes should be on him. 

“I hereby decree,” he begins in a horrible impression of Umbridge, “by the power vested in me by the Pantsless Wine Gods, that nobody who has been drinking tonight shall go near any pool of water - be it the great lakes or even the prefect’s bathrooms. It’s for your safety, children.” 

Draco flops down into his chair. “I’m really too responsible for this shit,” he notes. “I shoulda been a Hufflepuff.” He then descends into giggles because, him? A Hufflepuff? His father is rolling in his grave. 

It seems that the wine is finally getting to Harry as he calls out, too loud for the intimate setting, “No, you shoulda been in Ravenclaw!” 

“_Ravenclaw???_”   
  


“Yeah!” 

“I’m sorry, I’m gonna need more information than a hearty exclamation of approval and agreement.” 

Harry tosses his head back into the couch cushion, gesturing broadly with his wine glass. The contents slosh dangerously, and Dean wisely plucks it out of his grasp before they end up with a spill on their hands. Go, Responsible Friend! 

“Right,” Harry says. “Here’s the thing: Ravenclaws are known for being really smart, right?” 

“Sometimes,” Luna agrees. Pansy honks. 

“Well, most of the time, right? And, I mean, Draco’s really smart! Like he made the little button thingies - the Potter Stinks, ones? And he wrote whole fuckin’ songs about me-” 

“They weren’t about _you_; they were about my _hatred_ for you!” 

“ANYways! You also figured out how the cabinets worked to let all those bad guys in! And, I mean, was that the best application of your smarts? _No_. But it was still impressive. And then after _that_, like that wasn’t bloody cool enough--” 

“I don’t think heralding the start of a year of terror counts as _bloody cool_, Potter.” 

“Draaaaay! Stop interrupting me! I’m on a roll! As I was _saying_, you then went on to run a whole bloody spy ring! Right under Snape’s nose! With _kids_! So yeah. Ravenclaw. ‘Cause you’re smart, and shit.” 

“Because I’m smart and shit,” Draco repeats wryly. Harry’s lucky he’s cute when he’s drunk, otherwise he’d be insufferable. 

“Yeeeeaaaah.” Harry finally pulls his head off the couch, pinning Draco with eyes a bit too sharp to be drunk whining. “And hot as fuck too.” 

Pansy, Blaise, Ginny, Neville, and Seamus holler their approval while Hermione laughs in shock. Dean rolls his eyes, but looks vaguely horrified. Ron, to Draco’s immense amusement, it asleep, slumped against the arm of the couch. 

“Ooooookay, soldier,” he says instead of answering. “I think it's time to cut you off. You too, Pansy.” 

He makes grabby hands at Pansy’s drink, which she gives over willingly. Harry, however, puts up more of a fuss. It’s impressive, especially considering that he doesn’t even have his glass. 

“What? Draaaaay! Noooo! Don’t deny me my ine- inbrie- my drunkenness!” 

“Right, so that failure of a sentence right there? That’s more than enough proof.” 

“And how come you’re so clear headed?” 

Draco snorts. “I’m not. I’m just an eloquent drunk.” 

Hermione is now laughing breathlessly, though Draco would be pressed to explain why. “Ten points to Slytherin!” 

Draco wonders whether his house will actually wake up with ten more points. He wonders whether Hermione will remember awarding them. He finds he doesn’t really care. His friends are wine drunk and pantsless. He’s wearing his absolutely-not-a-crush-definitely-just-his-roommate-what-are-you-talking-about’s sweater, and his not-crush definitely said he looked fuckable in it. He’s happy, giggling too hard to breathe. Life is good. If only for the next few hours, life is wonderful. 

Draco takes another sip of cheap wine, and sings along to Pansy’s awful rendition of a Weird Sister’s hit from three years back. 


	2. Dancing to Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco twirls out of Harry’s reach. The movement hikes up the sweater just enough to show the bottom curve of a delectable arse. Harry screws up his courage. 
> 
> “Is this a date?” 
> 
> Draco twirls back around. “Dunno,” he says. “You’re the one telling me I’m hot.” 
> 
> Harry chokes on his spit. “Telling what?” 
> 
> Draco grins, his face devilish and stunningly handsome. “You share all sorts of things when you’re drunk, Potter.”

Harry groans.

Apparently nearly a bottle of cheap wine on an empty stomach _will_ leave you with a hangover from hell. Good to know. 

“You’re fine,” Draco drawls from somewhere beyond Harry’s personal ball of misery. Harry just groans louder. 

“Are you always such a baby when you’re hungover?” Draco sounds genuinely curious. Harry genuinely wants to die. He grunts this time, which must be an improvement, and rolls over onto his side. 

A cool, wet _something_ touches his forehead and he jerks away from it. Mistake. Big mistake. _Huge_ mistake. The earth seems to forget which axis it spins on, which is fascinating since he’s fucking lying down. The bed dips near his hip as Draco shushes him. 

“Relax,” Draco murmurs. “It’s just me with a flannel. You’ll feel better when you aren’t sweating out cheap alcohol on your pillows - trust me.” 

Harry settles limply into the mattress, allowing Draco to fuss. When Ginny warned them at the beginning of the year that Draco was ‘the biggest mother hen to ever mother hen’, Molly included, Harry was hardly convinced. In this moment, though? The notion is tracking. 

Harry follows Draco’s orders clumsily as he heralds him into the bathroom.

“C’mon, y’ big baby. Brush your teeth and wash your face.” 

Harry grunts, going through the motions. Is it his most thorough brushing job? No. Did he get his molars? That’s for him to know. (He didn’t. He’ll muster the disgust for it when his head isn’t gonna explode.) 

Draco presses a bottle to his lips and Harry drinks it without hesitation. He figures if Draco was going to murder him, he had months to do it. As Harry swallows the potion, a cooling sensation travels both to his stomach and head. It eases his headache immediately and settles his rolling stomach all at once. Harry sags against the door frame. It puts his body delightfully close to Draco’s smaller frame. Now that his headache is easing, he has the wherewithal to be equal parts thrilled and terrified about it.

He opens his eyes to slits, taking in his roommate. His hair is grown out, falling around his shoulders in soft, shiny waves. He’s still wearing Harry’s sweater, looking both adorably dwarfed and mind-bendingly hot. The edge of dove grey briefs peeks out from beneath the bottom hem, leading to miles of smooth skin. Harry wonders if Draco shaves his legs, then nearly laughs at himself because what the fuck kind of bloke thinks about that? 

Harry reaches out his hand, pinching some of the excess fabric between his thumb and forefinger. Draco immediately blushes. 

“Oh, I am _so_ sorry about this whole Sweater Fiasco. It’s embarrassing, really. I should have taken it off when I woke up, but it's _really_ soft, and--” 

“I meant what I said. You should keep it - you look better in it than I do.” 

Draco opens his mouth to respond, then closes it. His face is flushed in a broad brushstroke from ear to ear. He looks down and runs the arch of his foot up and down his calf. Harry’s fascination with the smoothness of the leg resumes. Does he not grow hair? Does he shave it all off? Where did he learn to shave his legs? 

“Sorry.” Draco’s laugh is soft and very obviously self-deprecating. “I’m usually _much_ smoother than this.” 

Harry laughs, a little breathless, a little thrilled. He’s got a bitch of a hangover from alcohol that definitely shouldn’t have affected him this strongly, he’s flirting with _Draco Malfoy _of all people, and, wonder of wonders, Draco Malfoy is flustered and blushing. 

“Have I done it?” he murmurs. “Have I cracked the code to the unflappable Draco Malfoy?” 

Draco twists up his face, leaning into Harry. He’s delighted to find that Draco barely reaches his shoulder. 

“I think if the last seven years have taught us anything, it’s that you’ve always managed to fluster me. Don’t let it get to your head - I’m endlessly surprised you aren’t tipping over with how big it is.” 

“Ah! There’s the insulting prat I know and adore.” 

Draco snorts inelegantly. Harry’s heart swells like the fool he is. 

“Well,” Draco sighs, “there’s always more where that came from. C’mon. We should go get breakfast.” 

Draco twirls out of Harry’s reach. The movement hikes up the sweater just enough to show the bottom curve of a delectable arse. Harry screws up his courage. 

“Is this a date?” 

Draco twirls back around. “Dunno,” he says. “You’re the one telling me I’m hot.” 

Harry chokes on his spit. “Telling _what_?” 

Draco grins, his face devilish and stunningly handsome. “You share all _sorts_ of things when you’re drunk, Potter.” 

~ 

“So, wait.” Harry dabs at the syrup that escaped his mouth with his napkin. “What the hell did you give me that made my hangover go away.”

“Oh, that was a quick and dirty hangover potion.” 

“What was it called? I ought to give some to Seamus as a belated Christmas gift.” 

“Oh, uhm, it’s not for sale. Not yet, at any rate. I brew that for myself and my friends.” 

“Wait, you _made_ that?” 

Draco shrugs, looking down at his own plate. “Well, yeah.” When Harry splutters in shock, Draco waves him away. “Harry, it’s not that impressive--” 

“Like hell it isn’t!” 

“Right, but Severus Snape, the greatest Potions Master of his generation, was my godfather - I’ve been brewing since I could stand at a cauldron.” 

“Draco,” Harry says slowly. “You developed a new potion. How old were you when you did it?” 

Draco shrugs, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. “Fifteen. Look, it’s really not that exciting, and--” 

“Why are you so uncomfortable about this?” Harry’s voice is sharper than he meant it to be. When his mind starts drifting to those awful days wearing the damn Slytherin Locket he snaps himself back to the present. If he balls his fists in his lap to stop them from shaking, that’s his business and nobody else's. 

Draco stutters to a halt, then looks down at his plate. He pushes around his waffles for a while, mouth screwing and unscrewing. 

“I--” he cuts off with a sigh. “It makes me uncomfortable to talk about brewing because- ugh, this is gonna sound so dumb.” 

Harry goes out on a limb and lays his hand on Draco’s atop the table. Draco looks up and smiles softly. Harry feels his heart sinking in his chest. Something tells Harry he doesn’t actually want to know why Draco’s being so evasive. 

“I don’t like talking about brewing because it was _our_ thing- me and Severus, I mean. It was the one thing that my father couldn’t touch. Severus was a shitty man, okay? I know that. God knows that Neville didn’t deserve a single bit of hatred Severus spewed at him, and to this day, I have no idea why Severus was so cruel to him. But Severus was also the closest thing to a father I had. Lucius Malfoy wouldn’t know unconditional love if he tripped over it.” 

Harry’s intuition was right. He very much doesn’t want to hear any bit of this. Whatever romantic thrills were floating through him have promptly fled at Draco’s admission. In their stead is a heavy mixture of grief, anger, and misgivings. Before he can speak up and stop him, Draco begins again. 

“My father believed in duty and his own pride,” Draco continues. “I think, at one point, he had a real affection for my mother. But by my earliest memories, he was cold and cruel.” Draco stops, looking away. “I don’t like talking about my father. I never doubted that he would come to my aid if I said I needed something to protect our family name, but he was also my Boggart in third year. I’m willing to bet good money that he still is.” 

Harry squeezes Draco’s hand, guilt settling deep in Harry’s stomach. He was a prat to ask, to keep pushing when Draco clearly didn’t want to talk. Another smile, this one smaller and more brittle than the last, is pasted onto Draco’s face. 

“I’m sorry I pushed,” Harry says. “I didn’t mean to bring your father into this.” 

Draco shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. My family, history, past- the whole lot of it will always be,” Draco pauses. “Will always be a sticking point.” Something in Draco’s face has gone flat and diplomatic. It only takes a heartbeat for Harry to place where he’s seen that expression: Narcissa Malfoy. 

Harry shakes his head, equally angry with himself and at all the variables in their lives that brought them to this point, broken and scarred at eighteen goddamn years old. He puts that anger aside. He hasn’t the time to unpack it, and he has a gorgeous date to woo sitting right across from him. 

“Hey,” Harry murmurs. “Come back to me. You disappeared into your shell.” 

Draco coughs out a laugh. “Sorry,” he chokes. “I’m a shit first date.” His smile is small, but it’s soft and real. Harry counts it as a win. 

“I’ve never been more charmed,” he lies smoothly. “Dance with me.” 

“_What_?” 

“Dance with me!” 

“To what music?!” 

Harry shrugs. “Dunno. I’ll have to serenade you with my delightful singing.” 

Draco still looks dubious, but he allows himself to be tugged to his feet. “I don’t remember you being a particularly gifted vocalist.” 

If Draco’s vaguely horrified expression is anything to go by, Harry’s grin must be as shit-eating as it feels. 

“I’m not,” he agrees. “We’re still going to dance.” 

Harry tugs Draco’s body close to his own. He doesn’t bother with the fancy arm positions he learned for the Triwizard Tournament. He just loops his arms around Draco’s waist and does his level best not to shiver when Draco’s own, smaller hands slide up his chest to rest on his shoulders. 

Harry hums an aimless tune, rocking their bodies from side to side. When Draco shuffles closer to him, he begins to spin them in a small circle. With the softest of sighs, Draco finally pressed their bodies together. His hands slide to wrap around Harry’s neck, and Harry can feel his fingers tangle in his hair. Their legs tangle together as Harry moves his arms to something resembling a hug more than proper dance moves. Headmistress McGonagall would be so disappointed. 

Because he’s a snarky little shit, Harry can’t help but asking, “Draco Malfoy, do you shave your legs?” 

Draco’s laughter is free and loud and God, Harry is in deeper than he ought to be on the first date. 

“That, Harry James Potter, is knowledge exclusive to Level Three individuals. You are on Level One.” 

“And, pray: how would I get to Level Three?” 

“It’s an organic, unknowable process. I’ll let you know when you get there.” 

It’s Harry’s turn to laugh loudly in the silence. “You, Draco Malfoy, are incredible.” 

Draco stumbles over his feet slightly, but quickly returns to their swaying. He doesn’t say anything, has no witty comeback at the ready. Harry doesn’t mind. He’s dancing pantsless in the kitchens at Hogwarts on his maybe-first-date with Draco Malfoy. 

He continues humming aimlessly. When Draco nuzzles into the soft fabric of his t-shirt, Harry’s fairly certain his heart melts into a pile of shmoop. He can’t find it within himself to mind. 

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is dedicated to the Sarah herself. May our fuckery never cease. 
> 
> Come hang out with me on tumblr:   
sarahreallymademedoit


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